Some years ago, my mother gave my boyfriend, at the time, and I a cat for Christmas. Even though she has a penchant for giving funny gifts (note: they are mostly for her amusement), I suspected she was testing our relationship. My boyfriend responded by asking that she give him a swift kick in the nuts, instead, the following year. Never give someone a pet, as the saying goes.
This was no kitten. Well, for accuracy’s
sake, we had a choice. She presented us with two framed photos, one of a feral
kitten and one of an older cat, both male. The older cat, according to my little
brother and my mother’s accomplice, drooled. A lot. We decided to meet this cat
first.
“Puffy” – his street name – lived with his
foster parents a few blocks away. We visited during the early afternoon of a
grey San Francisco day. Puffy, part Maine Coon, had a mane like a lion. His
foster parents, still in their pajamas, were watching college basketball on the
boob tube and had a purple bong either poorly hidden or conveniently located (depending
upon your view of such things) behind said boob tube. So, his street name had a
double entendre. We knew this was our cat.
Renaming Puffy took too long. I know this
because a lot of people still call him Puffy. To be clear, his name evolved from
Puffy to Puff to P-Kitty, just like the hip hop mogul naturally, to Michael
Jackson (who passed mid-naming, okay) to finally landing on Mookie. When we
took him to his first vet appointment, there was an older couple that was laying
their dear Mookie to rest. One Mookie leaves the cat world as another one
enters. You can call him Mookie Boo Boo, Monkey Butt, or Boobies. He does not necessarily
have a preference.
Mookie climbs onto my chest, with his nose
close to mine, every morning and every night. He talks to me in squeaks and
likes to be held like a baby. The left shoulder of most of my shirts has claw
marks and absorbed much drool. He never breaks eye contact and he greets me
at the door. He hates having his picture taken, especially when he is wearing a
sombrero. He is going through a husky phase, at the moment, but perhaps it’s
just sympathy weight. I tell him that he is going to have to learn to play
second fiddle.
I hope I love my kid as much as I love my
cat. And I hope they love each other. And I also hope they do not sit on each
other’s faces.
